


Snow

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ficlet, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Neville search for Potions ingredients in eighth year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Draco complains for probably the hundredth time.

Neville’s only half listening, about two meters away. He overturns a rock with his foot and mumbles, “I think I found it.”

“How are we supposed to find a stupid flower in the snow?” Draco continues ranting. “It’s the stu—”

“Draco, I found it.”

Draco pauses and looks around. Neville’s already looking over his shoulder towards his partner, pointing vaguely to the clear spot the rock left behind. A small, cracking red blossom is hiding underneath—the ingredient they need for their Thursday Potions lesson. Neville kneels down in the snow, effectively getting the whole lower half of his robes soaked. The Melontress flower needs to be picked in a certain way, or it’ll shrivel up and lose half its magical properties. Neville might be terrible at Potions (perhaps the only upside to having Draco for a partner), but he’s more than halfway decent at Herbology (where he gets to pay Draco back).

Draco walks over and kneels beside Neville, gathering up the tips of his robes so as not to get them wet. He reaches out, but Neville lightly slaps his hand away. Like every time Neville stands up for himself, Draco looks at him incredulously. Eighth year is a new start for all of them, although some people (Draco) have trouble understanding that other people (Neville) have changed. This is particularly odd to Neville, who honestly thinks that Draco has done a one-eighty since first-year more than anyone—in some respects, at least.

He’s still whiny. And he’s still annoying, and he still gives Neville a hard time, all the time, for virtually no reason. Even though they’re stuck partnering in almost every class—the odd one out of bother their changed groups. But he’s also just a smidgen more capable of humility, and without Crabbe and Goyle by his side, he picks half as many fights. He’s slightly more mature than he used to be, sharper with his humour but tighter with his tongue. He seems to understand that if Neville leaves, no one else will agree to associate with a fallen ex-Death Eater, and he’ll have an even harder time trying to struggle through classes he never thought he’d have to take. Being on the losing side, evidently, was not something Draco ever accounted for.

Now he sits back (scowling slightly) and lets Neville carefully move the snow aside. After a minute or two, Neville looks up at him and says, “We need to clear the snow away—just be careful with it. We have to take the flowers out gently and keep as much of the root attached as possible.”

The scowl leaves Draco’s face in favour of listening—Potions is his favourite class. Neville know this from the odd conversation here and there, which surprisingly become easier every time. It’s somewhat of a relief—Draco looks much nicer when his pointed features aren’t twisting in malice, or, just as likely in the past year or two, despair. He watches Neville’s fingers with a vague interest in his grey eyes and drawls, “Why? The snow’s already crushed it.”

Neville shakes his head and smiles slightly when Draco’s fingers join his, moving away the soft white piles. “Crushing it isn’t a problem—tearing it is. It lets the magic out.”

Draco shrugs and mutters, “If you say so.” His pale fingers begin to tint blue like Neville’s as they dig, and his digits are more delicate and small than Neville’s calloused, work-hardened ones.

They bump a few times, and Neville tries not to blush when Draco’s warm skin hits his. They get a fair-sized patch dug out, and Draco rubs his hands together for warmth while Neville explains what to do next. “You can’t use magic on it; it’ll dwarf the existing stuff inside the plant. It’s best to dig up the dirt around the stem and sort of push the root out.”

“Can you do it?” Neville glances sideways; Draco’s nose is wrinkled, looking mildly distraught.

Neville chuckles, “You’re such a princess.” He smiles even wider when Draco’s head whips around, blushing furiously.

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are,” Neville repeats, but he doesn’t actually want to fight over it, so he rolls up his sleeves. “I’ll be your prince, though, don’t worry.” He’s definitely gained a lot of confidence since the D.A., and surviving the Carrows, and chopping of the head of Voldemort’s snake, but he still doesn’t have _quite_ enough confidence to wink at Draco. He thinks about it, though, and Draco seems sufficiently upset without it.

He glares at Neville and cross his arms, but, of course, he doesn’t try to help when Neville starts shifting dirt aside. It’s mostly frozen in solid chunks and sort of difficult to do without ripping the roots, but Neville’s slow about it, and careful. Draco watches him in silence, and when Neville looks over, he’s surprised to see Draco looking mildly enthralled.

Mostly to break the silence, Neville asks, “Are you staying for Christmas?”

A sudden sadness flickers over Draco’s face, and then it’s gone as soon as it came. Neville instantly regrets asking; he knows that Draco’s father is still in Azkaban and won’t be paroled until next March. From the sounds of things, Draco’s mother hasn’t taken this at all well, and is mostly out of the country, visiting relatives and just generally being gone.

So Neville’s not all that surprised when Draco sniffs, “Yes.” After a minute he adds, “You?”

“Yeah,” Neville nods, as he successfully moves the first flower out of the ground. Draco extends his hand helpfully, and Neville brushes off the dirt before laying it in Draco’s palm. “I try to stay when I can; for some reason Gran berates me more than usual over the holidays.”

“She still does that?”

Neville laughs as he looks sideways at Draco. “What do you mean ‘still’? She always does that—she’ll do that to the end of time.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously I understand why she used to—you were a bumbling idiot straight up to seventh year—”

“I wasn’t that bad in sixth—” Neville interjects, but Draco cuts him off and keeps going.

“—But then you amassed a little army or whatever and fought the Dark Lord and everything. ...And you’re not that bad in class, now.” Draco pauses before adding, with his trademark Malfoy-smirk, “Obviously I can take the credit for most of that, since you do partner with me a lot, but still.”

Neville half-smirks back and half just smiles. Every time Draco compliments him, Neville treasures it, and he files it away in the never-forget-this-moment category of his brain. Draco doesn’t even seem to notice it half the time, but when they’re alone together and don’t have to worry about anything else, he can be downright tolerable. When he returns Neville’s smile, he looks almost glowing—infinitely more gorgeous with a smile than a sneer.

The sneer is more of a sexy look—the grin is more of a pretty one. The more time they spend together, and the more time Draco has to recover from the war and his family’s downfall, the more Neville finds it undeniable that Draco is very _pretty_. And sexy. And just generally handsome. His platinum blond hair has grown a bit longer, and his hollowed features have filled out a bit more, and the dark circles have begun to fade from his eyes. He’s still lithe as ever, and he still possess a certain air of grace that Neville will never have, and he sways his hips a bit too much when he walks. He shuffles a bit closer to Neville—perhaps to get a better look—as Neville methodically extracts the second flower. Draco’s arm brushes his when it extends to take the flower. Neville drops it in with a lingering gaze.

He runs his eyes back up Draco’s arm, up his black robes, up to his pale face. “No one else is staying in Slytherin,” he says, and Neville isn’t sure if Draco’s sad about it or not. According to Draco, he never had true friends there—most were just minions no longer interested in him. He seems to wait for Neville to comment, and when Neville doesn’t, he asks cautiously, “...We could perhaps study for the Transfiguration exam together? ...Your wandwork isn’t the best—you could use the help.”

The corner of Neville’s lips twitches upward. The more he gets to know Draco, the more he finds it cute rather than grating when Draco tries to accompany a kind offer with an insult. Neville’s mind curiously runs over what he could do to Draco alone in an empty dorm room, and he says a bit too quickly, “I’d like that.”

Draco smirks, as if to say, ‘of course you would.’

Neville returns to the dirt and starts on the third flower. Then he stops abruptly, mid-way through.

Then he turns sideways too fast for Draco to move, and he pecks Draco lightly on the lips.

When Neville pulls back a second later, Draco shoots his fingers to his mouth, looking somewhat surprised. His cheeks are slightly pink, and there’s a split second where Neville wonders if, perhaps, that wasn’t the best idea. Being a headstrong Gryffindor has worked well for him in the past, but acting before speaking might not be the best way to woo a Slytherin. He could’ve been wrong about all the signs.

Draco doesn’t seem to need wooing.

Because he leans forward next and kisses Neville back.


End file.
